PROMOTED 

1916 k 

copva f FROM THE RANKS 



A WAR BALLAD 



^ 



By MATTHEW CRAIG 



PROMOTED 
FROM THE RANKS 

OR 

THE ODYSSEY OF A BRASS POT 
A WAR BALLAD 

By MATTHEW CRAIG 



^ 



AUTHORS CO-OPERATIVE PUB. CO. 
125 Chvirch St., New York City 






Copyright, 1916 
By 

MATTHEW CRAIG 



Germany's Metal Pots, Pans, 

Kettles, Needed for Army. 



Berlin, via London, July 31 
(A. P.) — The military authorities 
of the province of Brandenburg 
have issued an order expropriating 
all supplies of copper, brass and 
nickel. The order covers skillets, 
pots, pans and kettles in house- 
holds. These articles may be re- 
quisitioned until further notice, 
but must not be sold, destroyed 
or disposed of in any way. 



JAM 15 1916 



4o 



)CI.A418548 



PROMOTED FROM THE RANKS 



He was made of sheet copper, of rubicund 
glow, 

And he hung on the wall of a great chateau 

Many more than a hundred years ago. 

He was part of the revel and high romance, 

The vintage cheer with its measured dance, 

In that stately, far-away time of France. 

The huntsmen's hallali reached where he 
hung. 

And pastourelle pipes; while harps were 
strung 

And roundel and gay ballade were sung; 

And odors of capon with truffes saute. 

Of old Bourgogne and of Epernay 

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Mixed with the strains of the roundelay. 

Till he sang, with a copperine ring, where 
he stood 

On his iron tripod o'er the crackling wood; 

It was **Vive la joie!" — French for "long 
live good food." 

Bref, he asked nothing more than here to 
stay — 

Our casserole friend — till the final day 

When coppers and cooks shall be laid away. 



II 

Then one bright morn in the month of 
May — 

Or of Floreal then it were best to say — 

When apple-blooms, like tapestry, lay 

On the yellow loam of the old verger 

And a seal of peace closed the nestled farms, 

There rose sudden panic with shrill alarms 

From the belfry-tower, wild clatter of arms 

And mounting of horse; for a far cry flew 

Up the dust hidden road: "They come, the 

Our friend, from his kettle-rack on the wall, 

Caught everything and reflected it all; 

How the great bronze gates of the park 
flung wide, 

How the citizen-soldiers trooped inside 

And, without a blow, the demesne occupied; 

Keys of cellar and wine-vault were yielded 
up 

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And Egalite pledged in fraternal cup 

When soldiers and peasants sat down to 
sup. 

For myrmidons, valets and chef, be it said. 

Had stayed behind when the seigneurie fled. 

Nota: the cjief slept that night in the old 

Count's bed. 



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Ill 

So it was that our hero happened to go 

To the wars, in the train of the great 
Marceau, 

Beyond the Rhine and into the Countries 
Low. 

Those were stirring times; and they stirred 
him, too. 

Whether 'twas saucr-krctut or hraten or French 
ragout — 

Which is nothing more complex than Irish 
stew. 

And always, 'mid cannon and carnage, he 
bore 

A brave front, a face just as bright as be- 
fore. 

And show me what hero or war-lord does 
more. 

When, at last, came peace. His old chef had 
died; 

His comrades, the kettles, were scattered 
wide; 

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He was brought home, a gift, to a sweet 
Flemish bride; 

Who so furbished and scoured him, with 
true Flemish might 

And a vigor which made him blush red with 
delight, 

That you'd' take him for gold in the small 
candle-light. 

Then again to the rack on a kitchen wall, 
where 

Hung round-bellied pewter and black earth- 
enware ; 

He blinked at these last, an aristocrat's 
stare — 

There are castes in copper as you are aware. 

But n'importe. It was peace and the good 
man's cheer, 

Good, homely ways and good home-brewed 
beer, 

Afar from war's passion and frenzy and 
fear. 

The sun sifted green through the vines at 
the door 

Putting patches of light on the white 
sanded floor, 

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With abundance, content, the birth-right of 
the poor. 

Till, in time, like ripe pippins, children's 
faces, 

Capped in the quaintest of Flemish laces. 

Smiled back from his burnished copper 
spaces. . . . 

And if, in his exile, his heart oft would burn 

For his fair native land, it was like when 
we yearn 

For our love song of youth which may 
never return. 



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IV 



Then dawned a black day, tho' God's sun 
blessed His earth, 

But it rose on bowed heads, empty fields, 
stilled mirth 

And on ashes strewn cold in each humble 
hearth. 

Loud wrack split the sun-light with horror, 
despair. 

And death came hurtling through the air 

Picking its toll of the young and fair. 

Our veteran knew it, that distant breath 

From the battle's throat which brought 
them death. 

Through the unsheltered cottage the shot 
flew wild. 

He caught what he could and turned it aside 

From the breast of the mother who suckled 
her child, 

From the palsied grandam he had known as 
a bride. 

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He fought — giving back with each resound- 
ing stroke, 

And held till a shell carried all. Blind with 
smoke, 

He crashed 'neath their home with the dead 
peasant folk 

To oblivion stunned. . . . 



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It was bright when he woke. 

Incautious, he stretched — and he ahuost 
broke , 

He looked. How came he to be in such 
plight? 

His corpulent girth was diminished, quite, 

And buttoned up snug in a uniform tight. 

In cut like an oblong sort of bell . . . 

He was capped and tipped to a shrapnel 
shell. 

Great Bellona! ... He asked himself 
how it befell 

That he, who had boiled with such ardent 
breath 

That all men should live, must now deal 
them death. 

"Are not you of the Fatherland?" some- 
body said 

Close beside him, or under; perchance over- 
head? 

IS 



'T was between him, the part of himself 
that was lead. 

He shuddered: '*Canaille"; but politely 
said he, 

For first he was French what e'er else he 
might be, 

"Of the Fatherland? Yes; but we call it 
Patrie. '' 

There was time for no more. From his 
place in the trench. 

He descried, far beyond, the blue lines of 
the French, 

And his Gallic heart leaped to the fight at 
the thought 

Of those deep, sodden trenches where brave 
comrades fought. 

He would reach them, somehow, from this 
enemy lot. 

He waited. His turn soon to speak, 'mid the 
shriek 

And shrill and yell of shrapnel and shell 

And stench of fumes in this hideous hell. 

At last. His turn now. With a thrill un- 
known — 

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The exile's joy to meet his own — 

He sped; and his shout died in a groan. 

Too late he knew his murderous quest, 

Too late, as he tore on the battle's crest, 

And buried him deep in a Frenchman's 
breast. 



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VI 

And is that the end of the tale? Not so, 
There's a sequel. It happened a week ago. 

Again do the great park gates swing wide 

While car and ambulance speed inside, 

In the old Count's chamber line cots, side by 
side. 

On turret and terrace the sun slants low 

Flaming the mullions to crimson bars, 

Laying the peace of its afterglow 

On the blood-drenched fields, with their har- 
vest of wars. 

It circles a halo, like love's mystic spell, 

About two who stand in the great oriel. 

A pale young soldier, a white-capped girl 

Snatch their moment of love from the bat- 
tle swirl. 

Short is the time. Theirs is love denied — 

War-love — by suffering sanctified, 

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With Death standing ever close beside. 

Now they say good-bye ere he leave for 
the strife. 

Close he enfolds her, his day-old wife, 

The girl who has nursed him back to life. 

And brave is* their parting, albeit for years, 

High words and hopeful, unbroken by fears , 

While, courageous as tender, they smile 
through their tears. 

Yet little reck they of their young love's 
loss. 

On each brave breast is blazoned the 
Cross, 

A red-crossed band on her uniform white, 

On his tunic the cross he has won in the 

fight- 
Like blood drops its jewels hang red in the 

light— 

*'Keep it, sweetheart; and this — soldier 
gifts to my bride," 

And her smile loosed the tear it had striven 
to hide 

As she took it, the splinter they'd found in 
his side. 

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Twas a fractional bit of the once brilliant 
whole — 

This veteran rest of our French casserole — 

But he'd lost not one whit of his Gallican 
soul; 

For he blushed, now, the uttermost scarlet 
of bliss 

'Neath that warm tear's touch and her pas- 
sionate kiss. 

Fight and fall by the side of his old Seig- 
neur's heir! 

Feel the tear and the lips of his liege ladye 
fair! 

Ah, 'twas "Gloria Victis" aplenty — to spare ! 

Yet more. For again he is destined to go, 

But promoted, how far, from the old ranks 
below. 

In line to the wall of the proud Chateau 

By the Cross of the Legion, himself a hero. 



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VII 

She paled as she turned to their farewell 
embrace 

While the sun to a temple transfigured the 
place. 

Long and silent he looked in her brave, up- 
turned face 

Then above, to the grim likenessed line of 
his race, 

And a moment they bowed their young 
heads, rev'rently. 

Then his voice like a bugle-call rang, blithe 
and free : 

(While a cracked copper ring seemed to 
chime in with glee) 

"Long live our dear France, God, Wife and 
Patrier 



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1 TRRftRY OF CONGRESS 

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